Aftershocks
by hobgoblin123
Summary: After the inevitable bad quake finally razes Jaggonath to the ground, Damien finds himself trapped in the remnants of his doctor's office. His only company is a strange man from his past who claims the impossible. Mpreg warning!


**Aftershocks**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

A/N: Hi, Sweeties! Long time, no see, so to say, but I hope everybody's fine. I'm still sick and can't sit for more than a few minutes at a stretch, but this story has been waiting on my pc for so long now that it simply had to be finished (sadly it's the only one for the foreseeable future). Thanks to all of you who left Kudos on AO3 or reviews on either site. I'm so grateful and will try to reply soon. Promise!

Regarding this little fic, please beware if you don't like mpreg and/or birth scenes. It's nothing particularly gruesome, but consider yourself warned ;-)...

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When Damien came to again, it was so dark that he couldn't see his hand in front of his eyes. The last thing he remembered was that he had been about entering his waiting room in order to call up his next patient. And now he was on the floor, covered from top to toe in rubble and his head hurting like blazes. What the hell...?

"The quake wards failed at long last, as was to be expected," a calm voice answered his unspoken questions. "Unfortunately, your house collapsed on top of us. You needn't worry about choking to death, though. I can feel a slight draught, so getting enough oxygen shouldn't be a problem. But if I'm not completely mistaken, you're suffering from a concussion, Doctor Vryce. If I were you, I wouldn't..."

The former priest passed out again. For a few hours he drifted between short episodes of pain-filled consciousness and utter oblivion. Slowly resurfacing from the realms of insensibility once again, he suddenly found himself back on a glowing rooftop littered with sharp crystalline growths. He rushed forward, but he was too late. Just when he set eyes on Tarrant who was laying spread-eagled on the ground like a lamb bound for slaughter, the sun rose over the horizon, and the world drowned in a sea of flames. The Hunter screamed as he had had never screamed before when the fire consumed his body, and Damien joined him, crying out his anguish of mind up to the unforgiving skies. He had failed on a grand scale. Hesseth bones were bleaching in a ravine, poor little Jenseny had sacrificed herself for the greater good, something no child should be forced to do, and Gerald was dying a horrendous death because of his incompetence. If his mission had been accomplished, he would have wrapped his arms around the being he had come to cherish beyond his wildest dreams and accompany him on his road to hell without thinking twice.

"Vryce! For heaven's sake, wake up! You're having a nightmare."

Forcing his heavy eyelids open, Damien still couldn't see a thing, but a hand on his shoulder anchored him to reality. No fire. No burning. Just darkness, rubble and dust. Another man might have been scared shitless, but what was a measly quake compared to the spectres of his past? "I'm sorry," he rasped. "How long have I been out this time?"

"It's rather difficult to keep track of time, as you might be able to imagine, but I'd reckon one hour. How do you feel?"

"Better. My head still hurts, but it's bearable. A few sips of water and fresh air, and I'll be as good as new. I only wish to God that they'd hurry up with digging us out."

His companion in misfortune snorted. "I very much doubt that we'll be out of here in the foreseeable future. It was a bad quake, striking without warning. One doesn't have to be a genius to realize that hundreds of people are sharing our fate at the very moment, or are off much worse. It will take some time to bring a semblance of order to the chaos, to rescue the survivors and recover the bodies. We'd better be prepared for a long wait."

Talking was pretty exhausting in his battered state, and so Damien closed his anyway useless eyes again and dozed a bit. But after a while, his hearing sense sharpening to make up for the loss of vision, he registered that the quiet breathing not far away from him was suddenly speeding up to short, rapid gasps, a sign that something was seriously amiss. "Are you hurt? Or sick?" he asked into the darkness, somewhat belatedly remembering that next to one frequented a healer without a good reason. It went without saying that each member of his profession could tell a tale or two about hypochondriacs being a pain in the ass, but considering the few sentences they had exchanged, the man didn't seem to be inclined to going to pieces over trifles.

At first, there was no answer to his well-meant question. Just when he was beginning to wonder whether it was his would-be patient's turn to be out cold, a low sigh reached his ears. "I'm not altogether keen on breaking the news to you, but as matters stand, it would be outright futile to draw out the inevitable," the stranger whispered. "No, I'm neither hurt nor sick. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. I'm in labour."

"You're _what_? Listen, man, up to now, I thought I'd be the one with a vulking concussion. If this isn't your idea of a bad joke to lighten the mood or you've received a worse blow to the head than I, you'd better consider seeing a shrink as soon as we're out of here. Blokes can't get pregnant. Period."

"There you're very much mistaken. Some men can, provided that they subjected their body to certain alterations when the fae was still Workable. Having met adepts before, you of all people should know that most of the laws of nature binding ordinary people are, how shall I put it, less than imperative for those of my kind."

As if he could ever forget. At roundabout seventy, Cee hadn't looked a day older than thirty, but even that paled against Gerald Tarrant who had had almost ten centuries under his belt when fate had caught up with him at long last. But he had paid a terrible price for his longevity, if it could be called thus at all, condemned to roaming the night in his eternal hunger for human blood and suffering.

But this was all water under the bridge now. The Hunter had died on Mount Shaitan, just to be revived as a mortal man by the Mother of the Iezu. And what had it gotten him? One single sunrise and a bolt through his living, beating heart. As for what the 'spoiled brat' had told him on Black Ridge Pass - he had believed the insane cock-and-bull story because he had _wanted_ to believe, because his sanity, no, his very survival had depended on it, but after the first euphoria had passed, his doubts had returned with a vengeance.

But whoever that pretty youth may have been, he certainly had more pressing matters at hand, namely being buried under the remnants of his practice in the company of an either very pregnant or stark mad stranger. Which of the two alternatives was the more preferable one remained to be seen. At least his brain had cleared enough by now that he could remember who'd been next on his ever-growing list of patients. "Gerald Hawthorne, is it? Seems that the given name brings me no luck," he grumbled to himself.

The stranger chuckled softly. "I gather that you had a bad experience with a namesake of mine. Was he a friend?"

"No. Well, in a way. Busy with trying to save our hides, we never got round to discussing the quality of our relationship. But yes, I for my part was Gerald's friend. I... lost him long ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But maybe you should..."

Whatever piece of advice Hawthorne was having in mind was left unsaid when his words ended in a strangled moan. Damien called himself three times a fool for neglecting his professional duties. The man trapped with him under tons of stone very likely had a screw loose somewhere, but he was clearly in trouble and needed his help, however inadequate that might be under the given circumstances.

Muttering a vicious curse under his breath, he stretched out his right arm and groped around until his fingers touched a formidable bulge, only marginally covered by what felt like a torn silk shirt. "Holy crap!" he blurted out, snatching his hand away as if he had burned himself.

"Indeed," Hawthorne choked out between gritted teeth. "Giving birth wasn't on my agenda for the day," he continued when his breath had evened out again. "I'm only thirty weeks along. Just like a normal woman, adepts of both genders carry for nine months, but it's very unwise to let nature run its course. The male pelvis simply doesn't allow for it. Before the taming of the fae, the usual procedure would have been triggering the output of oxytocin somewhere around the thirty-second week. At the very latest, that is. As that kind of approach would require paying the ultimate price for it nowadays, I visited you in order to make an appointment for a Caesarean section, but the shock when everything came crashing down on us rendered my plans obsolete."

"Well, the best that can be said about this mess is that you needn't worry about having surgery anymore."

"How very reassuring," the adept snapped. "Lamenting about things which can't be changed usually isn't my style, but for once, I can't help but wishing it were otherwise."

 _So do I, mate, so do I_ , Damien thought miserably, but decided to keep his worries to himself. "How far are the... the pains apart?" he asked instead with as much professionalism as he could muster, his tongue outright refusing to form the appropriate medical term.

"As I've already said, it's hard to tell the time, but I tried to keep count. Not an easy feat during one of those nasty spasms, if I may say so. Anyway, the _contractions_ are getting longer and considerably stronger. The most recent ones lasted about forty seconds, with a gap of six minutes between each."

"Can you cope?"

The amusement in the low, slightly husky voice was almost palpable. "As I believe that you don't happen to have any analgesics at hand, I will have to, won't I? If we weren't confined to this wretched hole, I'd opt for walking about or taking a hot bath, but the way things are going, I'm afraid I'll have to rely on certain breathing techniques. It is to be hoped that they truly make a difference in terms of pain control. In any case, I'm not exactly looking forward to the next hours."

Neither was Damien, to put it mildly. Uncomfortably close to giving in to a surge of naked panic, he started to pick a way through the rubble in spite of his throbbing headache. Not much was left of his doctor's office, but he knew the place better than anybody else, his fortunately absent receptionist included. Maybe he could cleave a way out or at least find an unbroken lamp or one of the canteens containing mineral water for his clients. With regard to what was going on a few feet to his left, it surely would be direly needed before their ordeal was over.

The menacing groaning of overstrained stone and the no less frightening sound of trickling mortar froze him dead in his tracks. "Unless you're very keen on passing on to whatever afterlife waiting for you, you'd better avoid any rapid movements," the adept cautioned. "I might not be able to Work anymore, but I can still See, and trust me that the cavity shielding us from certain death is direly unstable. There is no way out, anyway. I checked it, More than once, actually, my condition being a great incentive to search for a way of escape. Your pretty brass lamps were shattered to pieces without exception, but a canteen lies right beside your left foot. I could do with a sip of water if you don't mind."

The object of his desire in his hand, Damien carefully crawled back to Hawthorne. Although his instincts urged him to drink his fill, he only nipped, saving up the precious liquid for the labouring man at his side. He still couldn't wrap his head around it that such a thing was possible. Perhaps his concussion was much worse than he thought and he was imagining things, but the stifling, dust-filled heat and the half-suppressed sounds of pain reaching his ears were only too real. "And so you decided to see a healer a few weeks before your due date. But why me?" he asked at long last, rather to distract his patient - and himself - than out of real curiosity.

"I chose you for two reasons. First, you've already sampled ample first hand experience in dealing with my kind. A certain amount of ranting and raving on your part was to be expected, but I knew that it would take more than a man giving birth to bowl you over after everything you've been through. Second, and even more important, I hold your healing skills in very high esteem. Among other things, by the way."

Damien blinked. Over the last five odd years, he had built up quite a reputation. It had gotten around that he knew his stuff, and even Jaggonath's high society had started to engage his services lately. Not that he had an itch for treating a bunch of pompous moneybags, but at least it paid the bills.

Taking his modest fame into account, it wasn't altogether surprising that Hawthorne had picked him. A bit more of a mystery was how the heck the man had gained his knowledge about his past. In the wake of Andrys Tarrant's triumph over his ancestor, he hadn't deemed it prudent to hawk his alliance with the Hunter, however justified it may have been at the time. He was reasonably sure that the Church which had been his home for so many years wouldn't move against him, but there were always some hotheads eager to root out evil, or what they perceived as such.

In itself, it was nothing to worry about. God knew who had babbled out his secrets, or which strings Hawthorne had pulled in order to obtain the information he had wanted. It didn't really matter. But there was something about the way the stranger addressed him, an air of familiarity utterly at odds with the recency of their acquaintance that sent a cold shiver down his spine.

A terrible suspicion began to bloom in his mind, but he pushed it down with all his main and might. Gerald wasn't a particularly rare name, and adepts had to number in the dozens in Jaggonath alone. It was a strange coincidence, no more. But even if, by a cruel twist of fate, his patient was identical with the youth from Black Ridge Pass, he couldn't be a new incarnation of the Neocount of Merentha. Mustn't be. However exhilarating Tarrant's survival against odds would have been under different circumstances, the mere thought of the bastard indulging in what was usually a necessary prerequisite for conceiving a child with anyone else but Damien Kilcannon Vryce was enough to make the toes curl in his boots.

"Doctor Vryce?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind placing your hand on my abdomen again? Although I'm loath to admit it, it seems to have a somewhat soothing effect."

"Better now?"

"Yes. May I ask you a private question?" Hawthorne breathed after a while.

"No problem. What's bothering you?"

"What you said about your friend... do you wish sometimes that you could turn back time, start all over again and put things right?"

Damien swallowed convulsively. "Of course I do," he forced past the lump growing in his throat. "But I suppose it was a lost cause right from the beginning. We were too... different, too set in our ways. And much too stubborn for our own good."

"He did you wrong, didn't he?"

"You can say that again! The vulking bastard sold me out and handed me over to the enemy without batting a golden-brown eyelash, just to mention some of the stuff I suffered at his hands. There were times I would have relished to get my fingers around his slender neck."

The warrior knight could hear the breath hitch in Hawthorne's throat. "So you haven't forgiven him for the atrocities he committed on... on..."

"Don't talk now. Just breathe. In and out. That's a good boy. You mean if I'm still spitting mad at him?" he continued when the adept relaxed under his hand. "The Prophet of the Law taught that the nature of the One God is Mercy..."

"And His Word is forgiveness. I know the Prophet's teachings very well, Vryce. But unless I missed something of vital importance, you aren't God. Humans act on different parameters."

"Granted. But I wiped that slate clean long ago. The only crime I still hold against him is that he sent me away in his hour of need, but that's another story. And now I'd rather you rested a bit and saved your breath. You're going to need it."

The night dragged on, and there was still no help in sight. Hawthorne was sitting in his lap now, leaning heavily against him. Things had sped up considerably, leaving him barely time to catch his breath in between, and his body was drenched in sweat. "Wrong..." he gasped out when he sagged back into Damien's arms. "So very wrong..."

"Nothing is wrong. You're doing fine." Vryce prayed to God that he was right. As far as he could judge from fumbling around in the dark like a blithering idiot, everything was in perfect order, but one could never be sure. A severe bleeding or just a weak heart giving out under the strain, and that was it, at least in the absence of a proper emergency room.

"Not now. Black Ridge Pass. Having a... a drunken romp with that imbecile in Kale, pretending it were you. Never telling you that... OW!"

His abdominal muscles hardening under Damien's fingers once again, Hawthorne cried out, a first since the former priest had woken up from a bad dream, just to find that reality was only marginally more pleasant. If he had been able to form a coherent thought, he would have done anything in his power to make it easier for his patient. A back massage, breathing with the mother-to-be or just a few reassuring words had often worked wonders in similar situations. But as matters stood, he felt unsettlingly close to having a full-blown screaming fit himself.

So his gut feeling hadn't betrayed him. The 'youth' who had turned his entire world upside down with a few calm sentences nigh to six years ago was the very same man who was digging his fingers into his legs now. The very same man who... he couldn't go yet where that train of thought would lead him. He just couldn't.

"Briefing you on my... my reasons for choosing you, I told only half the truth," Hawthorne whispered. "If I were to die, I wanted you at my side. By all indications, my wish seems to be granted."

"You won't die. Not if I can help it."

"But that's exactly the point, isn't it? I... oh God, not again!"

"You mustn't fight it. It just makes matters worse." It was a purely automatic admonishment, born from long years of experience.

"That's all very well for you to say," the adept ground out when he could talk again. "You aren't the one feeling as if a particularly nasty demonling were trying to tie a knot into your bowels."

That was the last straw. "No, nor am I the son of a bitch who plays tricks on a friend, vanishes for more than five years, gets himself knocked up at the very first opportunity and turns up on said friend's doorstep when the going gets tough!" Vryce exploded. "For God's sake, Gerald, just what the hell did you think you were doing? And while we're at it, don't give me that shit about snuffing it again. It won't wash with me!

Hawthorne didn't answer, but the channel Damien had thought forever gone opened up wide, flooding his mind with memories that weren't his own. He saw no pictures, just drifted in a world of pain and grief so all encompassing that no words could possibly do them justice. Fingers were on him, holding him down when he tried to curl up into a ball, while others were groping around between his legs, only adding to the horrible burning and stinging haunting him even in his sleep. At barely seventeen, he had looked hell in the face once again, had lost everything he'd held dear. His accursed blood relatives had seen to it, as usual. Why couldn't they just let him be now? There were worse things than joining his daughter in death, a lot worse.

"For God's sake, man, isn't there anything you can do for him?" a vaguely familiar voice piped up at his side. "Your bloody potions and compresses seem to be of no use at all. Will he pull through?"

"I'd say he's got a good chance if he regains his will to live. But that's beyond my power, Your Highness. I did everything I could in terms of medical treatment. The rest is up to you. But let me warn you: This mustn't happen again. Ever. With regard to the damage done to his reproductive system, it's a miracle that Mer Tarrant is still alive. Should he conceive again... I dread to think what it would cost him."

All of a sudden, Damien was back in his own body, his mind still reeling with the revelations sprung upon him. "Gerald, it rarely happens, but right now I don't know what to say," he muttered at long last. "Other than that I'm terribly sorry for all the crap y... that poor lad had to go through."

"Kindly save your pity for someone else. But now you certainly understand why I'm a bit apprehensive about the matter."

Damien took Hawthorne's slender hand into his much larger one and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I can see the point now," he said softly, "but I really think you needn't worry about things going awry. You aren't Gerald Tarrant, right? You body and his are completely different, so I see no reason why you shouldn't have a happy delivery."

Writhing in agony once again, Gerald was beyond listening to him. When the spasm was about to near its peak, he wrestled himself free from his embrace and got down on all fours. "It hurts, Vryce!" he groaned, clearly at the limits of his endurance.

"I know. Focus on your breathing and keep in mind that each contraction is one step closer to holding your baby in your arms."

"Spare me... that sentimental nonsense... and get it... over with, will you?"

Damien would have been only too willing to comply, but as matters stood, there wasn't much he could do save applying firm pressure to the small of the adept's back in order to take the edge off the pain and sending a silent prayer heavenward that nature would run its course without any complications.

Things stayed pretty much the same for about half an hour, but all of a sudden Gerald went completely rigid. "Something has changed," he panted. "I think I need to..."

He never completed his sentence, but as Vryce could feel something round and unyielding entering the birth channel, no more words were necessary. From far, far away he thought he could hear faint digging noises and a voice yelling his name, but busy with delivering a baby, he decided not to bother. With his patient being that vocal now, they simply couldn't be missed, anyway.

Gerald's son was born at the very same moment when a thin ray of light fell into their prison. Tired to the bone and his head hurting like hell again, all Damien could do was wrapping father and child into the remnants of what had once been his corduroy vest. Then the lights went out for him.

When he came to again, he was in his bed. Dear God Almighty, he couldn't recall having a weirder nightmare in his entire life, and that was saying something with regard to the Hunter's required fare. A quake was always a possibility on their fickle home at the outer fringes of the galaxy, but dreaming about his undoubtedly male former brother-in-arms giving birth defied description. How the heck his subconscious could have ever come up with such a ludicrous notion escaped him.

Something struck him as rather odd, though. The mattress he was laying on was much softer than he would have preferred it to be, and for the life of him he couldn't remember buying such an ugly overhead light. Come to think of it, having an IV sticking out of the back of his hand wasn't among his usual bedroom habits, either.

"It's good to have you back, Vryce," a hoarse but rather amused voice rang out behind him. "I was beginning to fear that you'd sleep through till harvest festival."

The man who'd been the Lord of the Forest in an era now the stuff of legends was sitting in a chair close to the window, immaculately dressed and his braid in perfect order. Only a slight pallor and the dark shadows under his eyes told of what he'd been through. That, and the newborn in his arms sucking contentedly at a feeding bottle.

"Good God, Gerald, I really thought that I had dreamt the whole crap," Damien blurted out when he had halfway regained the capacity for coherent speech.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but our little adventure was absolutely real. Much too real for my liking, if you know what I mean," Hawthorne added with a sardonic sparkle in his eyes. "But as everything went well, I'm not inclined to complain."

"How do you feel?"

The adept shrugged. "Being a bit sore after delivery was to be expected, but otherwise I'm fine. We're both fine, thanks to you. You did a good job, Vryce, in particular with regard to the rather adverse circumstances. I'm deeply indebted to you."

"All in a day's work," Damien muttered awkwardly, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. Even now, Hawthorne was more beautiful than a man had any right to be. The red, heavily embroidered silken tunic he was wearing complemented his black hair in a very becoming fashion, and his eyes shone in the lamplight like a pair of precious gems. In his own way, he wasn't an inch less desirable than Gerald Tarrant had been, but at present, there were other things on the warrior knight's mind than allowing his goddamn hormones to get the better of him.

"There's something I'd like to know," he commenced after sorting out his thoughts. "What you said about pretending that it was I you were making love to and wanting me at your side in the hour of your death - was it true?"

"As I wasn't fully cognizant at the time, you shouldn't put too much stock in my ramblings."

"Cut the crap, Gerald! I'm a doctor, remember? You were in agony all right, but nowhere next to being delirious."

The adept sighed softly. "You're quite a pain in the neck, as usual," he breathed. "As you very well know, I don't make a habit of explaining myself. But as I presume that I won't have a moment of peace and quiet until I've satisfied your curiosity, I'm willing to indulge you: Yes, every word was true. End of discussion."

"But why?"

An elegantly arched eyebrow shot upwards. "What about 'end of discussion' did you fail to understand, Vryce? You can pester me with questions for as long as you like, but I won't elaborate on the subject. Not now, not ever. If you're still totally in the dark concerning my motivations, you'd better make an educated guess."

His face was utterly serene and his light baritone as calm as if he were talking about the weather, but Damien didn't fail to notice a hint of a blush on those smooth cheeks, and suddenly it dawned on him. Grinning broadly, he got up and padded over to Hawthorne on naked feet, pushing the mobile drip pole he was being hooked up to along. "Well, it's good to know that my roguish charms didn't go unnoticed," he quipped, earning a withering glare for his flippancy. "As far as I'm concerned, you should have hit on me outright instead of having it off with a kind of vulking substitute, but what's done is done. Just promise me that you'll turn to me in case you ever plan an addition to the family."

"Not anytime soon," Hawthorne retorted drily. "But if we take certain precautions, I see no reason why we shouldn't enjoy the more pleasurable parts of procreation after an appropriate recovery period."

Damien swallowed convulsively. So much had assailed him lately, namely escaping death by a hair's breadth once again, the loss of everything he had built up over the last years, being reunited with the man he had gone to hell and back for, if in a way he wouldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams, and, last but not least, said man's veiled admittance of harbouring a soft spot for him that he couldn't help but feeling a bit overtaken by the events. In order to mask his emotional turmoil, he stretched out his arms. "May I hold him for a while?"

Looking down on the tiny bundle of life resting in the crook of his arm, the warrior knight felt a surge of tenderness welling up inside him. "Have you already chosen a name for him?" he muttered, covertly wiping away a tear from his cheek.

"If you aren't altogether adverse to it, I'd like to call him 'Damien'. After everything you've done for me, it's somehow fitting, don't you think?"

"I'm honoured, Gerald. Honestly. But what about the boy's biological father? Doesn't he have a say in it?"

"Not at all." Registering the baffled expression on his face, Hawthorne smiled faintly. "The man who sired him is of no importance whatsoever. Has never been. The only thing which drew me to him, fool that I was, was a certain superficial likeness to you. As it turned out, his hazel eyes failed to compensate for the lamentable absence of your inner values, let alone that calling him dumb as a stump would be a compliment."

"But yet you spread your legs for him." Damien grumbled.

"Just so. I'm not proud of it, but you've no right to condemn me out of hand, Vryce. Even leaving the lady Ciani out of the picture, isn't it true that you thought nothing of enjoying a fling every now and then when travelling with the Hunter, no strings attached? Anyway, I was intoxicated, another mistake I don't care to repeat. Being unaccustomed to imbibing large amounts of alcohol, I underestimated the havoc a bottle of wine can wreak on the human metabolism. It won't happen ever again. Nothing of it. This much I promise you."

Hawthorne got to his feet in a motion whose grace and fluency belied the lingering discomfort he must have surely still felt and moved silently towards him like a stalking uncat, deliberately invading his personal space. Although he very likely never would say the famous three words, his dark eyes were brimming with an emotion Damien had no difficulty in deciphering for once. If he could in fact turn back time just as his former brother-in-arms had suggested, he wouldn't mind making some minor adjustments to the way things had played out, but the past was the past. Now it was down to them to pick up the pieces and create a happy future for the new arrival. He certainly wouldn't mind a little Gerald or Ciani completing the family a few years down the road.

That train of thought triggered a rather alluring mental image of Hawthorne coming undone beneath him, and heat rushed to his groin in spite of his still somewhat wrecked state. Without thinking twice, he wrapped his free arm around the man's waist and pulled him into a kiss.

Gerald's lips parted for him without any resistance whatsoever. When their tongues met for the first time, the sheer bliss of it made Vryce go weak at the knees. For a while, the world seemed to stand still, but just when he was about to slip his hand under a silken shirt, the adept broke the kiss and drew back. "However much I may be sorry to interrupt you, there's work to be done," Hawthorne said quietly. "The 'Neocount of Merentha', our current abode, proved to be more resistant than its eponym, but other hospitals weren't that lucky."

"How bad is it?"

"Not half as bad as in the aftermath of the so called 'Millennium Quake' in 846, but with regard to what I've heard from the staff, the situation is far from being under control. Even two days later, many are still trapped beneath their homes or workplaces, and the surviving doctors and nurses can't cope with the thousands of casualties."

"And how the heck do you come into the picture?" Damien frowned.

"My healing skills are a bit rusty these days, but I know enough about human anatomy to render first aid or change some dressings." Registering the baffled expression on his face, Hawthorne shot him a defiant glare. "Don't give me that look, Vryce!" he huffed. "Changing my yesterday is beyond me. What's done is done, whether I like it or not. But I can and will contribute my share to putting an end to this mess. Call it a kind of compensation if you like."

"That's all good and well, Gerald, but what about Damien Junior? The way things are, you can't just leave him here. God knows what would happen to him."

The adept gingerly picked up what looked like a puke-green strip of cloth from the battered nightstand and chucked it to him with a wicked smile. "Gerald Tarrant might have made a mistake or two in his life, but he certainly was right in one respect: You're indeed a man of limited imagination," he chuckled. "Coming from the hospital stocks, this leaves a lot to be desired in terms of aesthetics, but I'm sure you'll find it quite helpful."

Adjusting the baby sling over the top of his shoulder, Damien stifled a sigh. Death, resurrection, transformation and bearing a child evidently had neither impaired Gerald's mastery in the art of manipulation nor his unique knack for getting the warrior knight's hackles up at record speed, but he had known better than to start an argument. Surviving just another disaster that could have easily been the end of them both, they were together again, and that was all that mattered. Everything else would come with time.


End file.
